A Tale of Two Faces

The friendship that can cease has never been real. -St. Jerome

It's a terrible feeling when it happens. A trusted friend and confidant, somebody with whom you have shared private and personal details of your life and counted amongst your very best friends, has very suddenly and without cause or provocation, lodged a knife smack dab in the middle of your back. You never saw it coming, making it all the more shocking and painful. Out of nowhere, without warning, explanation, or justification, either real or imagined. But there it was. It was years ago and my assailant was my friend and co-worker, suddenly blindsiding me and leaving me questioning my otherwise generally sound judgment in people.

I met Shirley (not her real name) several years ago during her first weeks as a new employee at work, and we quickly became friends. She came from another part of the country and was anxious to meet people and call Santa Barbara home. As a new member of my wider circle of friends, she was present for just about every gathering we had. With the entire group or sometimes just two or three of us, she joined us for drinks and dinner, weekend day trips, karaoke night at a local dive bar, picnics, wine-tasting, and concerts. We met to celebrate birthdays and holidays or just a random Saturday night out. We shared our accomplishments and gave each other support on the days when life was being a little less kind. Shirley was funny and smart and could carry on a conversation about anything. She seemed genuine and offered a listening ear.

Her life experiences were similar to mine to a degree, and being much older, she was able to listen to my little daily dramas and traumas in what I thought was a kind, genuine and almost maternal way. She asked all the right questions and said all the right things, and showed an interest in the lives of my children, inquiring about their grades, friends, interests and well-being. I, in turn, was a good friend to her. I showed Shirley around Santa Barbara, introduced her to new people, and shared her joys as well as her occasional disappointments. I listened to her stories of home and consoled her when she had bouts of homesickness. I was the first person she confided in when her boyfriend dumped her, and I listened patiently as Shirley stood crying her eyes out that first day, and many days following. I never judged her or her choices or lifestyle, and as my friend, I expected, perhaps rather gullibly, that she would offer me that same courtesy.

She was very agreeable. In hindsight, she may have been a tad bit too agreeable. Perhaps it’s my no-bulllshit approach or hard-nosed, bad-assed attitude when I have a strong opinion, but I have little tolerance for “yes-men” or cheerleaders. Try as I might, it’s a rare day when I don’t voice my opinion about something. That is not to say that I have to be right; I simply believe that there is plenty of room in this world for more than one answer and I don’t feel the need to edit my feelings or conversation for the sole purpose of being liked or accepted. I thought back and wondered what I missed and in doing so, I remember catching glimpses of what seemed like warning signs with Shirley. She was at times, inconsistent with her approach to people and seemed to say “Yes” quite a bit; I noticed that she seemed to agree with just about everyone on every topic. Smiling and nodding, it was ‘Yes, I agree…Oh my goodness; I love that too…Yes! Who knew we thought the same thing?...Wow, I never knew you liked that, too…” I remember stopping on a couple of occasions and thinking, “Wait a minute…I could swear she just said the opposite…”

The stabbing occurred late one night as I prepared to leave work. As I was saying goodnight to a manager, he began a somewhat cryptic conversation with me, asking me about an ongoing problem that had been a concern to many of us. He was vague, but in the course of our conversation I was struck by how his words were so similar to those shared by Shirley and me very recently over drinks. The conversation between my friend and myself was confidential and outside of work. We had agreed on the subject matter and we both voiced our opinions, as friends often do. I had no reason to believe that my words would be taken out of context and used against me by Shirley. But that’s exactly what happened.

I was reeling as I left work that night, stopping in a parking lot to call a mutual friend, and trying to explain what had just taken place. I was stunned and unable to understand why Shirley would compromise a friendship the way she did. What I didn’t realize that night was that Shirley was in a precarious position with work. She was in over her head and was struggling to perform her job. I had known there were issues, but I thought they were easily remedied and I had no idea that she was on the verge of losing her position and standing in an unemployment line.

The very next day at work, it was glaringly apparent that Shirley knew that I knew. She couldn’t look me in the eye and didn’t speak to me. I had decided that I would never have a conversation with Shirley about what she did; when dealing with someone of little or no character, it’s like beating your head against a wall and there is just no point. I was determined to do my job and not waste anymore time with her. During the weeks that followed, I learned that Shirley’s knife-wielding at my back was a desperate attempt at self-preservation. In some twisted way, she thought that divulging private conversations would secure her position. Obviously there are more details, but that’s the gist of it.

Sadly for Shirley, it didn’t work. And sadly for several of our other mutual friends, I was told that I was not her only victim. I rarely talk about what Shirley did; only three people know all of the details of her deceit. Oh, and Shirley knows, too, so that makes four. My lesson? I’m more cautious in choosing friends. I’ve accepted the fact that some people are just in it for themselves and will do whatever it takes. Shirley’s lesson? She is seeing first hand that Karma really is a bitch.

Shirley, you jest.